The Weight of Living
by dreamingofimpossiblethings
Summary: The alley was dark and deep and old, but not as much so as the man who occupied it. Sitting against a 1960s police box, staring up at the sky, was the oldest, loneliest, saddest man the universe had seen. This man was mourning. Mourning the loss of someone who had saved him time and time again. But he failed to save her. SET AFTER TNOTD.
1. The person you've become

A/N hello! This will be a two-shot, probably, just a little idea in my head. I needed to get these things out into words. I got the idea from the song "Weight of Living" by Bastille, so I feel that it deserves some credit.

Please leave me some feedback in a review, I love you whovians!

•••

"All that you desired, when you were a child

Was to be old, was to be old

Now that you are here, suddenly you fear

You've lost control, lost control

Do you like the person you've become?

It all crept up on you, in the night it got you

And plagued your mind, it plagues your mind

Every day that passes, faster than the last did

And you'll be old soon, you'll be old

Do you like the person you've become?"

-the Weight of Living part II by Bastille.

•••

The young old man sank down onto the bricks of the darkened alley, leaning his head against the blue blue wood of the 1960s police box that stood behind him. The light of yellow street lamps had somehow found its way into the dark corner of the city, the very depths of twenty first century London, and it shone sharply onto the planes of his face.

Several people passed the alley on that night, but none of them ventured in. At least, almost none.

One was a seventeen year old girl, coming home from a night out. She glanced down the little street, saw the man sitting in the shadows. Her path should have taken her down there. But something about the way the man was sitting, his head in his hands, unmoving, told her to go the long way round.

And there was an old woman, frail and wrinkled, who hobbled past on the way to a neighbour's house. She saw the man in the alley sitting under the funny blue box, glaring up at the sky. He struck he as being very very old, something she recognized from herself, though he did not look much more than thirty. Maybe it was how he held himself, his facial muscles taught, his limbs slack. As if he was giving up. Giving up on life. And the way he was staring up at the sky, as if he was looking for something that he could never find, that he had given up on finding. The woman hobbled along quickly, trying not to attract the attention of the old young lonely man.

Another was a young man in a black hoodie and track suit, the hood pulled over his face. He had a small knife in his pocket, and was prowling for late night wanderers that may have something of worth to him. He peered into the alley and saw the man. He thought he looked rich enough, he would have a wallet, and a phone, a watch, maybe. He was wearing a crisp tweed jacket and bow tie, which also looked expensive. But he stared at the man for a second too long, and he lifted his head.

The eyes that bored into him, the green grey eyes that should not have been of any note, frightened him. He was no stranger to London after dark, a member of a gang and a nightly mugger. The knife he clutched did not reassure him, however. Those eyes, they were more than just angry. They were... Pained, sorrowful, and yet so fierce, as if the man had seen so many things that they passed him by in a blink, but the injustices of everything he had experienced had finally caught up with him. He looked dangerous, unstoppable, a pure force of nature. A man who had killed many, and lost many. But a man who would kill again, who would show no mercy. He had lost too much that mercy no longer held meaning.

Those eyes were the most frightening things he had ever seen. And he ran.

The man in the tweed jacket looked down again, hearing the resounding footsteps of the mugger echo through the streets. He had seen the look on his face before he ran, that look of pure terror. The truth was, he was as terrified of himself as anyone else.

Before, he could kept it hidden. He could redeem himself, be the Doctor, a healer, a helper. Save the universe enough times, and maybe his guilt would fade.

But guilt never fades.

His companions had always helped him. They kept him in control. Their inherent humanity, their emotions, their goodness, their morals, all of that had kept him sane.

Rory and Amy, they had always reminded him to stay kind, to stay merciful. To show mercy to everyone, no matter how evil. To give everyone a second chance. He managed to lock his self-hate away, behind a bow tie and a fez and some silly jokes.

But then he lost them.

And he disappeared, for a while. Wandered the universe, never interfering, never helping. Observing. He thought for a while that he made no difference, no matter what he did evil would still be there. Everyone would always die.

But then there was Clara. Again, and, despite everything, he found himself wanting to help again. He was drawn in by her impossibility, her cleverness, her fire. When he found her for the third time, he was determined to keep her safe. She grew on him, brought the best out of him. He found himself becoming happier again, regaining those silly quirks that he hid his grief and regret and guilt behind. He reveled in the memory of her smile, her joyful flirting and witty remarks. The sorrow behind her eyes, the loss that reminded him of himself.

He had found himself, impossibly, undeniably, falling in love with her. He would never had admitted it to her, of course. He supposed that he loved all of his companions, but Clara was different. He had felt such an overwhelming need to protect her, and maybe he was always trying to protect himself. To protect himself from loss. The loss of her.

And in that, he had failed.

He could remember those few moments that his already splintered hearts has shattered in perfect detail. He had though he had saved her, after she had saved him countless times.

She had jumped into his own timeline, despite his pleadings, to save him. She had spread herself across space and time to save the stars, to save all those galaxies.

He couldn't have let her just go. So he had followed her. And he thought, finally, that he might have the chance to save her like he had done him so many times.

Oh, how happy he had felt when she had fallen into his arms. He had pulled her to him, convincing himself she was there.

But she had faded.

The pressure of his timeline on her shattered soul was too much. He was barely surviving himself, and Clara was only an echo of herself.

And she had faded into oblivion.

Now he had nothing to live for.

He was old. Much too old. He was always vague about his age, but the truth was that he didn't actually know. He told himself he was around a thousand two hundred years, but that was a lie. He was much older.

When he was young, so long ago, he wanted more than anything to be old. Old and wise, having experienced so many great things. But with greatness, comes downfall. With happiness come sorrow. With good comes evil.

It was all too much.

What he wouldn't give to be young again. Innocent and naive and striving for the good of the universe. Sharing the company of humanity, sharing in their goodness.

Now, the Doctor looked at himself. Truly looked, scrutinizing every detail.

He hated what he saw.

All that evil of the universe disgusted him, he had always fought for good. It was so hard to keep himself above the evil, however, so hard to show mercy.

Now it was impossible.

Why live? He asked himself. He had lived through ages, seen the turn of the universe. He had seen all the evil of the world, all the injustice. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not without becoming evil himself.

The Doctor closed his eyes against the light of the street lamp, stroking the wood of the TARDIS with this thumb. It was always them, in the end. A mad old man and his box, off to see the universe.

Maybe, just as he had seen so many others do, it was time for the mad old man to finally end.

•••

"It all crept up on you, in the night it got you

And plagued your mind, it plagues your mind

Every day that passes, faster than the last did

And you'll be old soon, you'll be old

Do you like the person you've become?

Under the weight of living

You're under the weight of living

Under the weight of living

You are under the weight of living

The weight of living, the weight of living."


	2. Out into the day

A/N so here's the second and final installment of this two shot. This one was inspired by the partner to the last chapter's song- Weight of Living part 1 by Bastille.

So basically, thank you for all the reviews guys. I really appreciate it. Please continue leaving your thoughts!

The Weight of Living Pt 2:

Stepping forward out into the day

Shrugging off the dust and memory

Though it's soaring still above your head

It is out of sight and none shall see

Oooh there's a light

Oooh there's a light.

•••

Several people passed the alley on that night, but none of them ventured in. At least, almost none.

There was one figure, tiptoeing through the old, dirty streets of moonlit London, who saw the man, and stopped.

She was a young woman, no more than twenty five, and had been picking her way through the streets for the last hour or so. She found it easiest to think at night, wandering around the city. It made her feel more alive, like she was the only person awake. And she would gaze up at the sky, at the infinite other worlds that awaited her out there.

Sometimes, in dizzying flashes of thought, she would believe that she already had visited some of these other worlds. That she already had travelled the universe.

Sometimes, she could remember things. Remembering was what she called it, because that was what it felt like. But, she supposed, how could she remember it if it hadn't happened before? They were delusions, weren't they? Little quirks of the human mind?

Though the flashes- a specific shade of blue wood; a dried leaf crumbling into gold; a sense of sorrow, the loss of someone she loved; an explained joy, a feeling of discovery and hope; a strange fondness for bow ties; a shining silver man; fear, immobilizing, damaging, fear- the flashes, they felt like memories.

There was one flash that had plagued her since childhood, reappearing in her dreams and always at the back of her mind. It was a little image of swirling black and gold, a sensation of floating, and a feeling of accomplishment and certainty. Whenever this flash played in her mind, she could always hear the same words, in her own voice, over and over again.

"Run, run you clever boy, and remember me."

This flash was the reason she had pulled herself out of bed and shook her mind off with a midnight stroll. Where she found the man.

The woman studied him, a young man, sitting limply against a wooden box. This was what struck her first, the specific shade of blue that the box was painted. It rang a faraway bell in her mind, but the man himself orchestrated a symphony of flashes. They coursed through her mind, more than ever before. The dark, swirling hair, long, lanky limbs and bow tie.

She remembered him. But she didn't know how.

She stood there for a while, observing the lost, sorrowful, yearning way that he looked at the starless sky. Searching for something, something he both hoped above all hopes and dreaded more than any dread to find.

He was old, she decided. Very, very old. He had seen blood and war and terror and evil, he had lived it. He had fought it. And he had become it.

The man lifted his head.

Grey green eyes burning with ferocity and loss and loneliness and an overwhelming hate looked into her own. But the hate was not for her, she could see. It was a hate for himself.

The eyes transformed so quickly from that look of pure ancient power and passionate self-loathing to clear and innocent disbelief that she could have told herself that the man was not as old and scarred as she had thought. But she could not wipe that searing glare from her mind.

The man leapt up to stand in the middle of the alley, staring wide eyed at her.

Who was this man? Why was he so full of grief and loss and anger and hate? And why, how, did she remember him?

His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed a word.

"Clara?"

•DOCTOR•

Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald.

His impossible girl.

The girl who saved him.

Even though he failed to save her.

She was standing in the entrance to the alleyway, a curious look on her face, her eyes crinkled in confusion.

It was Clara. His Clara.

"And how do you know my name?"

The Doctor gazed at her, still dumbfounded. All of his thousands of years, hundreds of goodbyes, and hundreds of re-unitings, could not have prepared him for this.

He scrabbled for something to say.

"Do-do you know who I am?"

As he voiced the words, his hearts clenched in his chest. He didn't think he could stand it, if she didn't remember him. He remembered her, every little detail, the exact warm brown shade of her eyes, each lively flirt or witty remark, the specific way her eyebrows tilted and her eyes widened and a smile tugged at her lips when he showed her another beautiful corner of the universe.

What if she didn't remember him?

The puzzled look on Clara's features transformed into a more guarded expression. She raised her eyebrows. "Why should I remember you?"

"Because... Because..." the words struggled to come out of the Doctor's mouth.

"So who are you?" Clara questioned. He saw a light return to her eyes, curiosity? Recognition?

"I'm the Doctor." He stepped forward. "Please." He hated the way his voice sounded, almost pleading. But she had to remember him. He had already said goodbye to her three times before. Fourth time lucky. "You have to remember me."

"Might I remind you that it is 2 o'clock in the morning, I am a young woman wandering around alone, you are a strange man lurking in an alley and are standing beside a suspicious looking box?"

"What? No! No no! I'm not- I would never- that's just- definitely not-"

"Oh enough of the stuttering. You said you're the Doctor? Doctor who?"

He had never thought there would be a time when hearing that question would spark anything other than a pleased thrill in his hearts, but this time it made them freeze solid in his chest.

"Just the Doctor." the words were heavy, dragging themselves from his lips.

"So what's the box, then, huh?"

"It's-" he paused. "It's a time machine." There was a time for truth and a time for lies, and this one was not a time for the latter.

Clara smiled. "Sure, sure. That's how you lure people in there, right?"

"No! No! See for yourself!"

"Yeah... No. Not going to work."

"No- hey- that's not-" he couldn't finish the sentence.

Still clinging to the impossible hope that somehow Clara might remember him, he stepped back to the TARDIS.

And then he opened the door.

He watched as the girl before him assumed the familiar expression that he craved, the pure wonder and awe that coaxed a flitter from his hearts.

"Clara." he said simply. "You're my impossible girl."

She looked at him. Her eyes, her face, her hair, her voice; it was all the same. And her personality looked to be so too, as much as he had seen. She was his Clara. His impossible girl. There was no denying that.

But the question was, was he still her Doctor?

Her facial muscles tensed and twitched, her eyes flicking from him to the TARDIS. He could tell her mind was whirling, but for what reason he could not see.

She came down the alleyway and stopped beside the TARDIS, still peering at the Doctor.

"Please." he said. "Remember me."

"I-I think..." she murmured. "The Doctor. The Doctor." she sounded like she was trying out the words, seeing how they fitted.

And then she smiled. It was dazzling, and it warmed the Doctor's cold, old heart. She stepped through the TARDIS doors and into the console room, not watching to see if he followed. She spun around to look at him in the doorway, still smiling that impossible smile.

"So you finally came, Chin Boy."

Clara. Clara. His impossible girl. She remembered.

And in that moment, all of the anger and lamentation and self-loathing that had been swirling through his mind were locked away deep inside him, where he could pretend they didn't exist. She was the only person he had met who could do that to him so completely, make him feel young and free and good and merciful and mad again, instead of old and trapped and evil and unforgiving and useless.

He was the Doctor. Not a merciless warrior drenched in the blood of a billion worlds and races. Not a lonely old man clinging to the remnants of his past. Not a war-torn, time-hardened stranger who turned away from the innocent and helpless. Not a dark god separated from the rest of existence and never involving himself in the ongoing fight between good and evil. No. He was the Doctor.

He was a helper, a healer, a hero. He protected the weak, defended the innocent, and fought alongside the right and good. He gave evil a second chance, he allowed everyone the ability to redeem for their wrongs, he showed mercy no matter the cost. He felt emotion, and compassion, he valued the lives of every soul who had ever walked the universe. He thought not of himself but of others. His age had made him wise, his losses had made him kind, and his mistakes had made him good in his heart.

He was the Doctor.

And finally, impossibly, he smiled.


End file.
